


Three Kingdoms, Two Princes, and One Werewolf Wedding

by KiratheCarrionite



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, And now I think I can write medieval politics, Because she kicks ass, But it's okay, Derek is a Prince, I've been reading too much Game of Thrones, Laura's alive!, M/M, Pseudo politics, Stiles is one too, There will be dragon-fighting, because it's a fairy tale, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiratheCarrionite/pseuds/KiratheCarrionite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Says my brain: We should write a fairy tale AU.<br/>Says I: Yeah! Which one? Snow White? Hansel and Gretel? Ella Enchanted?<br/>Says Brain: Shit, I don't know. But there should be princes. And an arranged marriage! Oh! Oh! And a dragon! They fight a dragon! Or something! And it's all sort of medieval! But not! And magic!<br/>Says I, suspiciously: Is this my inner ten year old?<br/>Says Brain: Shhhhhh. Just write it.</p><p>Which is how we got this pseudo-fairytale. Derek and Stiles are princes of neighboring lands, forced to marry, For the Good of the Kingdom. They fight a dragon. Or something. And fall in love. Because who's not a sucker for a happily-ever-after?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I thought I'd find you here,” Laura says, gently pushing a branch out of her way. Derek doesn't reply, staring at the water lapping his toes. Laura exhales and comes to sit next to him on the boulder. She's wearing leather slippers and a rich red dress, so she must have just come from a council meeting. Their feet dangle above the water, Laura's further above it than Derek's. Sometimes Derek still can't believe that he's taller than his larger-than-life older sister.

“I know you're not happy about this,” Laura says. Derek doesn't look at her face, focuses instead on the weeds and bracken gently rocking with the water. Laura lets the quiet be, for a moment. The birds are trilling and the wind rubs the leaves together, and the clear scent of the water mixes with the more complex notes coming off his sister. She smells like dust and old books, and a little bit like Human.

“You know I wouldn't ask you to do this unless I really believed it was the best choice,” Laura says, brushing her shoulder against his. The heavy fabric rasps against his skin, and Derek exhales. He refuses to call it a sigh, refuses to admit that he's been moping.

“I know,” Derek says.

“This will be good for you,” Laura says, voice full of confidence. Derek snorts. She bumps her shoulder against his, harder this time. “It will be! You thought the Argents would eat Scott alive, and look how that turned out.” Derek snorts again.

“His betrothed had to defend him from both her aunt and grandfather trying to kill him. And her mother put him in a dress for the mating ceremony,” Derek says, finally looking at Laura with his eyebrows raised. Laura smirks at that, briefly amused.

“But he found his mate,” Laura says, and the amusement is gone. Derek stills.

“It's unlikely that the prince is my mate,” Derek finally says. Laura sighs.

“But you don't know,” Laura says, “And you'll never know unless you try.”

“You're just doing this to get the council off your back,” Derek snaps, then immediately feels guilty. He doesn't look, but he can guess that Laura is giving him the sad, thin-lipped look she reserves for when he's acting like a child. He glares down at the water.

“Sorry,” he offers.

“I would never do anything to purposely hurt you,” Laura says, soft, “I know that when Lady Katherine - “

“Don't,” Derek says, sharp. Laura cuts off, watching him. Derek keeps his eyes on his hands, focusing on keeping them flat and not clenching them into fists.

“I'll do it. I'll go,” Derek says. “I'll find out if the prince is my mate.”

'But that doesn't mean I'll like it,' goes unsaid. Laura doesn't say anything, still watching him. Her attention prickles across his skin, and Derek can't stand the concern right now. He stands to go.

Laura's hand snaps out and clutches his wrist. “Derek,” she says. Her mouth opens, then closes. Then, simply, “I love you.”

“I have to pack,” Derek says. He shakes off her hand and jogs for the path to the castle. Laura lets him go, and Derek's last glimpse is her staring out over the lake.

________

 

“Stiles,” says the king. “It's okay to be nervous.”

“What? Nervous? Me? Pff. I've never been nervous in my life,” Stiles says, flapping his hand. His father gives him an exasperated look.

“Right,” he says.

“I mean, it's not like I'm about to meet my maybe-future-husband for the first time in six days, or like I have to go through some sort of weird sweat lodge ritual so I don't offend his delicate nose, and not like the entire future of the kingdom is riding on my ability to charm a werewolf prince I've never met before. An in case you haven't noticed dad, my charms are sort of limited.”

“Stiles,” his father says, looking slightly pained.

“I'm not nervous,” Stiles insists. His dad sighs.

“But if you were, you know you can come to me, right?” he says.

“Of course,” Stiles says. His father waits a beat, but Stiles just fiddles with the cuff on one of his sleeves. His father sighs again, then stands to leave the little alcove they've been sitting in. This bench was Stiles' mother's favorite spot in the garden, and one Stiles always returns to in times of stress. Which is probably why his dad knew right where to find him today.

His dad is only a few feet down the path before Stiles breaks.

“Isn't there another way? Any other way? At all?” Stiles asks. And if he sounds a little desperate, well, you can't blame a guy getting maybe-engaged to a werewolf prince, can you? His dad turns back to him, and he looks – tired, Stiles notices. Tired, and maybe a little old.

“I wish there were,” he says. “But with the attacks in the south... If this has a chance of working out, I think we need to give it our best shot.”

Stiles swallows, can't take his eyes off his father's haggard face. He knows how each death in the south weighs on him. He takes a deep breath.

“I'll be find, dad,” Stiles says. “Now shoo. Don't pretend you're not avoiding kingly paperwork.”

His dad affects an innocent face, but Stiles _perfected_ the 'Who, Me?' so he just shakes his head.

“Nice try. But if you don't hurry, you know Harris will send Finstock after you,” Stiles says.

“He wouldn't,” says his dad. Stiles gives his father a pitying look, because, really? Steward Harris would do almost anything to keep the castle running like clockwork, including sending their overly-enthusiastic stable master to corral the king.

“He would,” Stiles says. He tries raising one eyebrow, but damn, both go up instead, again. One day, one day, he'll manage that.

“Right. Well. I have to – go,” Stiles' dad says, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. He looks uneasily around, once, like he's afraid Finstock will pop out of the garden bushes. Which, to be fair, has happened before. He focuses briefly back on Stiles. “We'll talk later, settle the last of the details for the prince's arrival.”

“Yeah, yeah, talk to you later,” Stiles says, waving him off.

His dad trots off, probably still scanning the bushes for Finstock. Stiles watches him go until he's out of sight around a bend in the path. Then he lets his head fall onto the back of the stone bench, and blows out a gusty sigh.

It's a beautiful midsummer day, with Midsummer itself only six days away, which is when Prince Derek of the Hale Pack is set to arrive. Stiles lets his head loll on the bench, one heel moving restlessly up and down, jiggling his knee. It's early yet, not even eleven, so the summer sun has yet to really crack its knuckles and go to town on the day. There are only a few fluffy clouds up in the sky, not big enough to make shapes or patterns, which is disappointing. Stiles could use the distraction.

Stiles had come out here to be alone with is thoughts, which in retrospect, seems like a silly idea. He'd even gone so far as to give Danny the slip, even though Danny was possibly the most unobtrusive manservant/bodyguard _ever_.

But being alone with his thoughts doesn't make Stiles feel any better, and his head doesn't feel any clearer. He still has this thick ball of dread in the bottom of his stomach, because who the hell is anyone kidding? There's no way Stiles is going to charm anyone by being clumsy, geeky, and completely unable to shut up when it's good for him. And judging by some of the careful verbiage the Hale ambassador used, Prince Derek wouldn't be the easiest person to charm.

Stiles stares down at his hands, clasped between his knees. Really, though, honestly, what else can he do but try? He's the son of the King, Crown Prince of the land, and his people need him to make this work. So he will. Stiles knows his duty.

And who knows? Maybe Prince Derek will be the most easygoing, easily-charmed werewolf ever. It could happen, right?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys meet each other for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I usually try to write an entire fic before posting, but this time around I'm flying by the seat of my pants and posting as I go. Which, unfortunately, means that I'm also posting this sans beta. If you see any typos or egregious errors, please do let me know.

Derek hates horses. Horses hate Derek. And yet, he's been riding one for two weeks. So he could meet his possible mate. Who might now be his mate. Who is probably not his mate, in fact.

 

He can feel the distance of his pack, of his sister. He's traveling with a retinue befitting a prince, of course, but that doesn't do much to lessen the ache. They're far enough away now that he couldn't hear the howls of the hunt if he tried.

 

The feeling of being outside his territory itches along his skin and the back of his neck. This land doesn't know or welcome him, not yet. It belongs to another pack, another Alpha.

 

King. They're called Kings here. And Derek's a Prince here, not a Beta or Honored Beta. And the scents are strange, here, and the sky is too open without forest all around. This land is filled with fields and hills and “forests” that only take a day to ride through.

 

How are they supposed to hunt here, without proper cover? And what are they supposed to hunt? Rabbits? Sparrows? He left the forest behind with his pack and he can't even howl his goodbyes because that would spook the horses.

 

“It's not so bad,” Isaac says, “We're almost there.”

 

Derek turns his scowl on him, and Isaac turns his head away quickly, baring his neck slightly. It says something about Derek's mood that Isaac doesn't dare to give even the appearance of a challenge. He almost feels bad about it, almost reaches out to reassure, like Laura would already be glaring at him to do, but. But Laura isn't here.

 

So they ride on in silence. Isaac, Erica, and Boyd know him and his moods well enough that they'll leave him be. The other guards only know him as the Honored Beta, second only to the Alpha herself, and they've been careful around him this entire trip.

 

The day passes like that, with the others quiet and Derek brooding. Derek knows he's brooding, but he doesn't care to stop.

 

Soon enough, though, their destination comes into view. The castle stands out first, a massive stone fixture with high walls and three visible towers. It's the biggest building Derek's ever seen, and he finds that he's a little bit impressed despite himself. The sheer visual weight of it is only lessened by the floating multicolored banners and garlands that make the place look inviting.

 

The rest of the keep sprawls down the hillside and onto the land below, houses and streets and garlands and streamers and noise. Windows and roof-tops reflect the sun, and the air smells heavily of woodsmoke.

 

They move forward, and before Derek's hreally ready, they reach the city entrance and are met by five guards on horses. Their livery, and that of their horses, is a bright green, and every bit of them looks scrubbed and polished. They smell of soap and oil, and Derek is very aware of how travel-stained he is.

 

“Hail, Prince Derek of the Hale Pack,” says the guard nearest to them. His tunic has gray bands at the neck and shoulders, and he's sitting very straight in his seat. He continues formally, “I am Captain of the King's Guard, and it is my honor to escort you to him.”

 

“Thank you,” Derek says, “The honor is mine.”

 

The Captain nods, then briskly turns his horse and leads the way into the city. Derek follows, letting Erica and Boyd flank him when the king's guards fall in on either side of them, penning them in. It makes Derek a little tense, being closed in by them and the buildings squeezed in next to each other. It isn't helped by the crowds of people gathered to stare at them. It seems like the entire city is turned out to see their arrival.

 

Everyone is dressed in bright colors, and every house and building is decked out for the holiday. There's the noise of people talking and laughing, the smell of meat and other food cooking, and constant movement. Erica snaps her teeth playfully at a little girl that comes too close to the horses, and the girl shrieks and then runs away giggling. Derek rolls his eyes but doesn't reprimand her.

 

By the time they reach the castle proper, Derek is on edge and his teeth are gritted from the barrage of noise and smells. He suspects that not only the entire city, but the entire kingdom showed up to line the main thoroughfare.

 

The castle gates are thrown open, and they cross into a large courtyard paved with stone. Straight ahead, the doors to the main hall are also open wide, and an older man with a gold crown on his head stands at the top of the steps leading up to them. Derek takes a wild guess and assumes that this is the king.

 

Their escort leads them to the foot of the steps, where Derek gratefully slithers off his horse. It snorts and stomps a hoof, and Derek gives the evil thing a glare. Erica snorts, and Derek gives her a glare too before quickly straightening his travel-stained clothes and turning to the king. Laura and the Human ambassador had coached him on the required etiquette, so he knows to climb the steps and kneel before the king.

 

“Welcome, Prince Derek of the Hale Pack. You are welcome in this land and in this house and in this home. Three times I welcome you,” says the king. Derek feels something... shift in the air. It smells sweeter for a moment, then it's gone.

 

“I am grateful for the welcome. I pledge no harm to be done to you and yours by myself or one of mine. I pledge to act in honor towards your son. I pledge myself to the judgment of the land,” Derek recites, staring a the king's hands where they rest casually on this sword. The sword is decorative, but the king's hands are rough and calloused.

 

When Derek speaks the final words, he gets that same odd feeling again, and the same scent flashes by. Wildflowers. It smelled like wildflowers.

 

“You may stand,” the king says and Derek rises. He's at an even height with the king, and this close it's hard to miss the crow's feet around his faded green eyes. Then the king smiles and it's clear that most of them are laugh lines.

 

“Your ambassador advised us on what to do. I'll show you to where Stiles is,” says the king. Derek nods. “Steward Harris will show your guards to their rooms and yours.”

 

Derek nods again, and the king turns to lead the way. The main hall is also decked in banners and garlands and wreaths in many different colors, but the primary one is green. The king's tunic is a deep forest green, with bands of gold at the neck and shoulder. He wears a single gold signet ring set with a large emerald. Derek's beginning to sense a theme.

 

They wind their way through different passageways and up a set of stairs, and Derek gets turned around more than a few times. He could find his way out by scent if he needed to but right now he just feels irritably lost.

 

Finally they come to a stop in front of a door that looks like all the others down this hallway. The king hesitates in front of it, then seems to draw himself up and stand a little straighter. He turns to Derek.

 

“He's my only son,” he says. He doesn't give Derek a chance to respond, just briskly nods and walks back the way they came.

 

Derek stares after the king, then at the door. He has the sudden, irrational urge to turn right around and back out of the keep. But the prince is waiting.

 

Derek squares his shoulders, knocks once, and then opens the door.

_______

 

Stiles tugs absently at the collar of his robe, then quickly tugs it back in place. It's the only thing shielding his torso from view, and Stiles feels practically naked without a shirt on underneath. He glances at the clock on the mantle, but can't focus enough to actually register the numbers.

 

Not that knowing the time would help, since they only knew that Prince Derek was to arrive this morning. Stiles **had** heard more than a few shouts and cheers just now from the city, but that could mean anything on Midsummer's Day.

 

Tucked away in this unused guest room, the only way Stiles will know when the Prince has arrives will be when he walks in here himself. Which Stiles isn't read for. At all. He isn't ready to screw this all up and be a disappointment to his kingdom, and oh shit the door is opening.

 

Stiles straightens his robe one more time, tries to think of some intriguing or seductive way to sit or stand, fails, stands anyway, trips over the edge of a rug, and that is how he meets Prince Derek.

 

“Hi,” He says, lamely, regaining his balance. Prince Derek closes the door behind him. A short silence falls.

 

“Hello,” Prince Derek says, He's not smiling, and he looks sort of uncomfortable. Maybe his werewolf nose can smell the awkward in the air.

 

“Welcome - “ Stiles says, taking a step forward to – shake the guy's hand, or something, it doesn't matter now because Stiles bangs his shin into one of the settees in front of the bed. “Ow, fuck! Shit!” He hops backward, grabbing for his shin, but trips on the rug, _again_. He's pretty sure he's going to make it all the way to the ground this time, with no way to catch himself. But just as he's made peace with that fact, an iron bar jars into his lower back, stopping his fall.

 

Or at least that's what it feels like. When Stiles blinks his eyes open, he sees Derek's, a handsbreadth away from his own. He blinks again, just to be sure. Yep. Those are some shockingly green eyes.

 

His heart, now that the danger of falling has passed, chooses this moment to start pounding uncontrollably. There's a rushing in his ears as he regains his feet, grabbing Derek's shoulders to get his balance, babbling apologies all the while. But Derek doesn't seem to be listening, his brow furrowed and frowning. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply.

 

“Did you follow the instructions?” he asks.

“Um,” Stiles says. He's noticing, just now, how really thick Derek's shoulders are. And muscled. And all Derek's wearing is a leather jerkin. Well, that and leather leggings. All skin-warm and supple, and – Derek inhales again.

“Instructions, what instructions, oh those instructions,” Stiles babbles, hands flexing nervously on Derek's shoulders. He thinks of taking a step away, but Derek hasn't moved his arm from behind Stiles' back.

“Yeah, I mean, I sat in a room with hot rocks and steam for four hours, then I washed these clothes myself, then I came to this room, and I haven't seen or touched anyone for a whole day, and was there anything else I was supposed to do? The ambassador didn't tell us about anything else,” Stiles says, getting more and more nervous with Derek's blank expression, and the heat from the Werewolf's body not letting him forget how close they are.

“No,” Derek says, “There wasn't anything else.” But he doesn't look entirely convinced, and he glances around the room suspiciously. “Did you bring anything else into the room with you? Anything besides your clothes?”

Stiles freezes, says, “I - “

Derek's eyes snap to him, and Stiles doesn't breathe, just lets go of one of Derek's shoulders and reaches into the collar of his robe.

Stiles doesn't know what Derek was expecting, but when Stiles brings out the golden oval locket on its thin chain, Derek's face goes blank and his glare smooths out. Derek doesn't say anything, just stares at it, and Stiles finds himself filling the silence.

“It was my mother's,” Stiles says, watching the way the gold catches the light from the narrow window. It has a pattern of vines and leaves etched into it, and Stiles' thumb traces over the familiar grooves. “It has a lock of hers and my dad's hair braided together. It's supposedly enchanted so that they stay entwined forever and never fade, but -” Stiles glances up at Derek, who's still expressionless. “Um. Yeah. My dad gave it to me after she – after my mom passed away.”

Derek's staring at the locket, face unreadable. Stiles doesn't know if he should apologize or something, maybe try to explain more.

“I could break the betrothal based on this,” Derek says quietly, still staring at the locket. Stiles feels the blood drain from his face, sudden and sure. So he really did fuck this up, not even five minutes and he's already – Derek flicks his gaze up to Stiles' face.

“I won't,” he says. Calmly. Like he didn't just give Stiles a freaking heart attack.

“Oh good,” Stiles breathes out, trying to calm the hell back down. His heart is pounding a little too hard from the sudden shot of adrenaline, and he can't believe this whole thing almost came crashing down because of one piece of jewelry.

Derek finally seems to notice that he's still holding on to Stiles, and he drops his arm and stands back, staring at the ground. Stiles lets his hands fall from Derek's shoulders, sort of missing the feel of them

And now they're back to awkward silence. Awesome.

“So uh, what are we supposed to do now? Because your ambassador really only outlined what was supposed to happen up to now, and then he said some vague things about 'instinct' and 'tradition' and he made a point to ask if I had loose clothes. Which, not gonna lie, made me pretty nervous, and I”m really hoping this isn't a virgin sacrifice situation. I mean, you seem like a nice guy mostly, but I don't know you that well and we're supposed to stay in here all night and until the feast tomorrow. So, um, what's supposed to happen here?” Stiles says. Derek's head had snapped up at 'virgin sacrifice,' and now he just blinks at Stiles. Stiles fiddles with the cuff of one of his sleeves and stares in the general direction of Derek's chest. He can feel his cheeks burning, which means he's blushing now. Great.

“I'm... supposed to learn your scent,” Derek says. Stiles flicks his eyes back to Derek's face, but that's no help.

“And, uh, that means?” he asks. Did his voice just squeak a little? Shit, he hopes not.

“It just means being near you with no distracting scents around,” Derek says, looking uncomfortable again. Aaaand Stiles probably just managed to offend Derek **again** , all within minutes of meeting each other. Go Stiles.

“Oh. Um. Good,” Stiles says, “Why? Your ambassador only said that it was tradition.”

“It gives my wolf a better chance to recognize you as my mate,” Derek says.

“Is that... likely to happen? Tonight?” Stiles asks, a little alarmed that his life could be drastically changed in a mater of hours. He's only sixteen, he's not ready to be werewolf married!

“It's not likely. It usually takes months for mating to happen. This just gives the wolf a better opportunity right away,” Derek says.

“Usually?” Stiles asks, unappeased. Derek doesn't answer for a moment.

“My cousin Scott mated within a month,” he finally admits, and he doesn't sound much more pleased than Stiles feels, which, holy shit, a month?!

“So, what? Is there no choice in the matter? Your wolf smells something it likes and hey presto we're getting married?” Stiles asks, his voice maybe a little higher than necessary. He's not freaking out. If he were freaking out, there would be pacing and hand-waving. He's only mangling the sleeve of his robe and squeaking, and he can totally be a mature Crown Prince about this, he can.

“It's not without choice,” Derek says, “It's more about finding someone that the wolf will accept, and then seeing if the rest is compatible. Even if the wolf part of me sees a strong mate, things can still... go wrong.”

And wow, if Stiles thought Derek sounded uncomfortable **before**...

“It's... hard to explain. To non-Weres. Just, Humans call it courting. Think of it like that,” Derek says. He crosses his arms in front of himself and frowns down at the ground.

Well, Stiles has already managed to offend his betrothed, and now he won't even look at him. And they're supposed to spend the entire night and tomorrow morning together. Alone. What is Stiles supposed to even _do_ with a grumpy werewolf prince, anyway? There’s nothing entertaining in this room. Stiles already explored it while he was pacing around waiting for the Prince to arrive. Nothing except -

“Do you want to play cards?” Stiles blurts. Derek blinks and looks up at him. “I found a deck in one of the drawers of the desk earlier and I put it back, but if we're going to be stuck here all night with nothing to do, better to have something to do, right?” Stiles waves vaguely at the heavily carved wooden desk in the corner of the room. The desk is decorated with poorly detailed mermaids and what looks like is supposed to be kelp, and the mermaids all have rather large – uh, charms, which are covered by improbable seashells. Barely covered. Stiles can see why it was relegated to the least-used guest chamber.

Derek seems to consider it, then he shrugs.

“Alright,” he says.

“Great!” Stiles says, turning sharply to grab the cards. “Though I warn you, I am the castle's undisputed Go Fish champion.”

“Right,” Derek says, and does Stiles detect a hint of amusement? The poor bastard. He won't even know what hit him.

_______

“Dude, stop glaring at my cards. I told you I'm the champion. Not even Lydia can beat me, and she's always making the councilors cry when she beats them at chess.”

_______

“Yes. Yes I did just win our fifth game of Go Fish in a row. Do your eyebrows always look that menacing?”  
_______

“Look, this is just getting embarrassing for the both of us. Do you want to switch to Slap Jack or somehting?”

_______

 

“Ow. Ow. Ow. Okay, you win Slap Jack. Ow. Stop looking smug, you have werewolf reflexes. I call a forfeit. It's late anyway, we should sleep. You can try to beat me at Go Fish in the morning.”

_______

“Stop inspecting the cards for trickery and go to sleep. ...Please.”


	3. CHAPTER THREE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm back! Look at that! *jumps off the back of the unicorn she rode in on* And it only took a minor miracle.

Derek is on a horse. Again.

Derek, to be honest, is not pleased about this. He's not the only one on a horse, but still. The beast was wary of him to start with, could probably smell the wolf in him, and now it can probably sense how very much he doesn't want to be on its back. If Derek had a choice, he would jump off it and send it running back to the castle by itself.

But he doesn't. Have a choice, that is.

According to the traditions of both their people, Derek and Prince Stiles are supposed to be getting to know each other, to seal their betrothal. They completed the traditional Were introduction two nights ago at Derek's arrival, and now they are on a courting outing, as is expected of the nobles of this land.

Derek isn't sure how he's supposed to learn anything about Stiles when they have chaperones, guards, and servants trailing exactly fifteen feet behind at all times, when there's nothing to distract them from the fact they met just two days ago, and when Derek is on a horse. They'd ridden down from the castle through well-kept gardens, and now the path has led them around a pond. In the twenty minutes that they've been riding, Derek has exchanged ten words with Prince Stiles. All were about the weather.

The path is starting to loop back around the pond towards the castle, and Derek rubs his thumb absently against his thigh where his hand is resting, staring blankly at the spot between his horse's ears. He'd dressed in clean leggings and jerkin for their first official courting session, but Steward Harris had still looked him up and down, obviously unimpressed. Derek hadn't understood until he arrived in the courtyard to see Prince Stiles in his perfectly pressed and embroidered cotton and linen finery.

“The uh. The ducks look... really nice today,” Prince Stiles says, then winces. Derek follows his gaze to see two mallards floating together on the pond.

“Yes,” Derek agrees. He turns back to looking between his horse's ears. The path is lined with gravel, and Derek stares at the bend up ahead where they'll be turning back to the castle. He casts around for something to comment on, something to break the silence, but he draws a blank instead. He can't think of anything to say to this stranger, and judging by the way Prince Stiles keeps opening and closing his mouth without saying anything, neither can he.

Their horses walk on, oblivious to the social fuckery going on above them. The sound of their shoes striking the gravel and dirt underscores the itch Derek feels at the back of his neck to just be gone, away from trying to woo this Human prince so far away from home.

They round the bend, briefly losing sight of their entourage, and Derek wishes he could hang back and take part in the low conversation Isaac and Erica are having. Stiles glances behind them furtively, craning his neck to see, then turns back in his seat, apparently satisfied.

“So is it just me, or is this formal courting thing an incredibly awkward and useless exercise?” Stiles asks. Derek blinks. Then exhales, relieved. He nods. Stiles looks just as relieved as Derek feels, and continues, “Oh thank the earth. Well, we're almost back anyway, but I might have a better idea for getting to know each other. If you're interested, I mean. I mean, you don't have to agree, but I can show you around the castle and garden and I won't be weird or stiff about it like Finstock or Harris, and -”

“I'm interested,” Derek interrupts, because it's beginning to seem like that's the only way to get a word in around Prince Stiles.

“Oh. Oh good. Great,” Stiles says. “Um, I'll come to your rooms after we get back? I just have to change out of this getup and into regular clothes.” Stiles says, gesturing at his embroidered and richly colored clothing. “Harris made me let Danny pick out my clothes for this thing, and you do not want to cross Harris, let me tell you. There was this one time, when I was twelve and...”

He then spends the rest of the trip back to the castle detailing the time when Steward Harris had caught a young Prince Stiles trying to play a prank on the Lady Lydia, and the ensuing chaos that caused. Derek finds himself chuckling more than once, and the trip back to the castle seems much shorter than the ride out.  
_______

Stiles stands in front of Derek's door, and tugs at the hem of his tunic. He'd changed as fast as he could into more casual clothing, not least because he hates the fancy stuff Danny and Harris like to browbeat him into.

He'd had to ask Danny where Derek's room was, which of course made Danny raise his eyebrows at Stiles and ask why he needed to know where Prince Derek's bedchambers are. Which made Stiles blush involuntarily, he hates it when he does that, which made Danny's eyebrows go up even further. Stiles explained that he'd offered to give Derek a tour, and the brows lowered, but a faint sense of disapproval remained. Which, come on, if he ever let Danny's disapproval stop him before, he wouldn't have even half the amount of interesting stories he has to tell.

Danny told him where to find Derek, of course, because for some reason he has trouble saying no to Stiles. Which Stiles has never bothered to question, because why ruin a good thing?

Stiles knocks on the door before he can psych himself out further.

Derek opens the door. He’s still wearing a pair of simple leather leggings, this time with a linen tunic. The sleeves are rolled up and the button at the neckline is undone. Stiles is briefly distracted by the prince’s bare forearms, but quickly reels himself back in. His own are woefully under-muscled in comparison, and he feels a little hot under the collar at the thought. Which is embarrassment, right?

“Hello,” Derek says. He stops there.

“Um, hi,” Stiles says. There’s an awkward pause. “Right, well, let’s get started! This tour won’t, uh, tour itself!”

Oh gods he’s lame. He’s so lame. Stiles is going to die of how much he’s embarrassing his people.

Derek just shrugs and steps through the door. “Sure.”

“So… I thought we’d get started in the Hall of Portraits?” Stiles says. Why is everything turning into a question around this guy. Snap out if it, Stiles. Derek just nods and closes his door behind him.

Stiles is starting to feel a little less optimistic about this idea.  
______

“And that’s uh, Artraud Stilinski the Third?” Stiles squints his eyes. “I think? Or the second. All of my ancestors from that time period look kind of the same.”

Derek nods and narrows his eyes at the portrait himself, as if he’s really looking at it. Stiles certainly isn’t. Derek is clearly feigning interest as they’re halfway down the hall and all of the exciting Kingdom Founding ancestors are already over. Now it’s down to the Keeping the Kingdom Running, Damnit ancestors, whom unfortunately no one actually gives a shit about. 

“And… and… I’m sorry. This is really boring, isn’t it?” Stiles asks, laughing a little. He rubs the back of his neck, and looks back up at Artraud Stilinski the Second. Or Third. Derek looks up at him too, and his impossibly froofy sleeves and cravat.

“Could be worse,” Derek says, and shrugs. Stiles guffaws. 

“Right. Getting your nails plucked off with rusty pliers also ‘could be worse,’” Stiles says, and shakes his head. He’s a little at a loss. Usually on a free day like today, he’d be spending time in the library catching up on new installments of ‘Grod the Destroyer’ or ‘Lara the Lady Adventurer’ from the local newspapers. Or pretending to work in one of the castle gardens, eating the ripest fruits off the vine and talking to his mother’s favorite rose bushes

He’s not so sure Prince Derek would be terribly interested in those pursuits, either. So far his hobbies had mainly seemed to involve scowling. And… being muscled.

Stiles reels himself back around. What was something interesting they could do? Something not having to do with dusty portraits and furniture from previous eras…

“Oh hey! You want to see my dungeon?” Stiles asks, brighter now.

Derek takes a look around the hall (which actually wasn’t that dusty, Steward Harris wouldn’t suffer dust to exist within his castle, thank you very much). He shrugs again, seeming not unwilling.

“Sure,” he says. Stiles grins.  
_____

“And I’m pretty sure one of my ancestor’s skeletons is actually down here somewhere, but that may have been something Lydia told me just to get under my skin when we were kids,” Stiles babbles, holding his lantern aloft as they continued down the stairwell.

They’d already toured the more modern holding cells in the castle’s basement. Those were generally reserved for overly enthusiastic solicitors or vendors that bothered Steward Harris, or the odd drunk and disorderly noble that wouldn’t stay in their rooms. The guards and patrol force had had their own barracks and central city jail since over a hundred years ago. What was left now in the castle was mostly for show.

“Danny also told me once that there’s an actual ghost living down here, some criminal that died before his trial and haunts his cell, waiting to hear his final pardon,” Stiles continues, affecting a raspy voice and holding his lantern right under his face.

Derek snorts and smiles, briefly. Stiles briefly considers pumping his fist in the air.

“Do you want to see his cell?” Stiles grins. Derek shakes his head but follows after him.

They round a corner of the narrow stairwell and finally enter the lower dungeon. Well. Lower-ish. There were dungeon’s lower than this, but they were closed down because they were no longer considered ‘safe’ or ‘hygienic.’

There was a row of cells in front of them, the closest ones lit by the orange glow of the lantern. They were made of old black iron, rusted in places and emanating a certain coldness. Stiles hangs his lantern on a hook next to the stairwell and walks towards the closest cell on his right.

“I’m not actually sure if this is his cell. We were always too scared to go any further than this,” Stiles says, smiling at the memory. Derek walks silently behind him, and Stiles briefly wrestles with the cell door. He pulls it, then enters and holds it open for Derek. He gives an over-exaggerated bow.

“Milord.” 

Derek looks dubious, but enters. 

“You have to see the manacles! This one time I actually convinced Lydia that I was locked up in them and was going to die of starvation before she could rescue me,” Stiles says, hopping forward towards the back of the cell. He hears a clang behind him from the door. Then a grinding, final sort of sound. He turns back to the door in horror.

“What?” Derek asks, brow furrowed.

“Um, nothing. Nothing! Hold on a moment,” Stiles says. He reaches back for the door he’d just let go of, and pulls gently. Hoping.

Nope. Harder. Harder. No.

“Um.”

“What?” Derek asks again, clearly more agitated. Which is fine, it was fine, Stiles can fix this. He pulls again, bracing his foot against one of the other bars.

“What did you do?” Derek growls, advancing on him.

“Uh, Ha Ha, nothing! Just, uh, would you like to try this door for me? Seems a bit… Stuck,” Stiles says, releasing the cell door. Derek gives him a narrow glare and brushes past him. He gives the door a pull. His glare intensifies. He braces himself, then pulls with both hands on two of the bars. The metal creaks and and the door seems to sway, the muscles in his forearms defined against his skin, but then Derek releases it and it's obvious.

They're trapped.

“What. Did. You. Do,” Derek growls again, even more menacingly. His head turns slowly towards Stiles, and Stiles swears he saw his eyes flash.

“I don’t know! It’s, it’s been forever since I’ve been down here, it’s never done that before, I mean, I’ve never noticed that it did that before, I -” Stiles stutters, hands held in front of him. Derek takes a step towards him. Stiles takes a step back. And finds himself with his back against the cell bars. “I - I -”

Derek’s lips are pulled back slightly from his teeth, and he takes another step forward. He pushes a hand against Stiles’ chest, dangerously close to his neck.

“Did you plan this? Did you lure me down here? Did you mean to get rid of me?” Derek asks. His eyes flash again. Or maybe they're glowing. Stiles thinks he can feel pinpricks from where Derek’s fingertips are pressed against him.

“What?! No!” Stiles says, shocked. Derek snarls, and it echos around the cells. Stiles’ mouth drops open. “Why - Why would I lock myself in here?!”

Derek blinks. His eyebrows seem to get a little less bushy. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks down at his hand, then slowly removes it from Stiles’ person. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief.

“I’m… sorry,” Derek says. His voice is back to normal now, and he takes a step back.

“It’s, it’s cool, man. I’ve had a couple of attempts on my life too. Let’s just… never do that again,” Stiles says, brushing down the spot where Derek’s hand had been. Derek scratches the side of his jaw. He looks a little embarrassed now.

“Right. Well. I’m sure the guards on the level above us will notice when we don’t come back. So we’ll just hang out here until they come to find us,” Stiles says. Derek just nods, still looking at the ground.

“So… we’ll just hang out then,” Stiles finishes. He looked around at the empty cell, then reluctantly considers the ground. It doesn't look any worse than the last time he’d been down here, which is to say covered in dust and dirt. He figures this spot is good enough, and sits down. Derek stays standing for a second, then follows suit.

Stiles lets the silence ring around them for approximately forty seconds.

“Wanna play twenty questions?”  
_____

“You are officially the worst at twenty questions,” Stiles laughs, letting his head thunk back on one of the cell bars. His legs are thrown out in front of him, and he’d slid down a little against the bars. Derek has one of his legs drawn up, one arm resting on it. He smirks.

“I’m not,” he said.

“You are!” Stiles crows. “You don’t ask questions! You just make statements. And not even relevant ones.”

Derek snorts, and Stiles grins. There's a sound in the stairwell, and Stiles looks hopefully over. No one appears. He waits a moment, then lets his eyes drag back to the cell.

“So. What do you do for fun? Hunt rabbits? Practice your scowl in the mirror?” Stiles asks, grinning. Derek scowls. “Like that! Good job!”

Derek rolls his eyes. “No. I… run. And read. I practice the sword.”

Stiles waits. Then he gestures with his hand to elaborate. Derek keeps looking at the ground.

“What do you like to read?”

“Old tales, mostly. From the first settlers. Adventures. And… myths,” Derek says. He scratches the side of his chin.

“So… fairy tales. You like fairy tales?” Stiles asks. Derek frowns at him, and he holds his hands up. “No, it’s cool. They’re some of my favorites. I’ve, uh, I’ve read all the ones we have in our library. And then some.”

Derek nods. “Our library was somewhat limited after the fire, as well.”

There's something in the way Derek said ‘the fire’ that said that Stiles shouldn’t ask about it.

“Man, I’d bet you’d really like the tales in the local papers. Have you heard of ‘Grod the Destroyer’?” Stiles says. Derek shakes his head. “Oh man, you have to! Buckles are swashed! Damsels are rescued! And lads too! And there’s gold! And his sword is bigger than his head! But he swings it with the greatest of ease!” Stiles demonstrates with an invisible sword. It must not look very impressive from his half-slumped position, because Derek laughs. 

It was nice. Derek’s laugh. Warm, and slightly rough. Like maybe he hadn’t had a chance to use it lately.

He almost opens his mouth and lets something slip about that. Maybe getting Derek to do it more often.

Thankfully, there's a sound of heavy boots in the stairwell.   
_____

When they finally walk away from the guards that had ‘rescued’ them (the chuckling bastards), Stiles can't help but say,

“We should do that again sometime.”

Derek gives him an incredulous look, both eyebrows raised, eyes judging. 

“Not the part where we get trapped in a dungeon, obviously. Just. You know. Spend some time together without five chaperones and the whole court watching,” Stiles says, nervously rubbing the back of his neck. Derek hesitates.

“I’d… like that,” he says. Stiles grins.

“Great! I’ll have to steal some of Lydia’s stash of the local stories. Wait until you see the artist’s rendering of Lady Lara. She’s got charms as big as Grod’s head.” Stiles demonstrates with his hands over his chest. And winks.

Derek stares at Stiles for a beat. Then he shakes his head and starts walking away.

“Should have left you in the dungeon.”

Stiles is almost offended, but he's pretty sure that Derek was joking.

...Mostly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oy. That moment where you realize that you switched tense halfway through the chapter. I'm a little rusty, guys. Apologies for any errors. This is totally sans beta.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I would love to hear from you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Old World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/639921) by [rabitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabitty/pseuds/rabitty)




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